Fingerprints
by Dark Rose of Heaven
Summary: "Draw me like one of your French girls, John." For the Johnlock Party 2011.


Yet another Johnlock Party submission I forgot about! :D Sherlock/Titanic crossover. Alternative title: _Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, John._

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><p><strong>Fingerprints<strong>

"Really?"

"Yes." The young man's gaze was all icy penetration, the sharp black cut of his leonine body taut with expectation. The fall of dark curls over his porcelain forehead was perfection: an answer to every artist's prayer.

John's hand tightened around the nub of charcoal in his pocket, and he tried not to swallow. His throat gave a convulsive jerk even so, and Sherlock's eyes darted to the pulse point that stammered frantically beneath the skin. "All right. You can, um, lie on the couch, I guess. Should I turn…?"

"Don't bother," Sherlock replied brusquely. Even so, his eyes never left John's as long musician's fingers came up to tug unceremoniously at his crisp white bowtie and find the pearl buttons beneath.

John realized he was staring as the other man stripped, so he busied himself with his sketchbook, finding a blank page and a chair, laying down a few rough strokes in charcoal to suggest the outline of the couch. He paid particular attention to the detail along the walnut edging of the ornately-carved feet, focusing with near frantic attention on something - _anything_ - other than Sherlock.

"Ahem."

John's attention was jerked upright, and his eyes ran over Sherlock's body in unconscious appreciation. It was just as he'd imagined, and so much more. The slim column of his neck now moved uninterrupted into the sweeping bow of jutting collarbones, the skin easing and stretching over the bones like water lying undisturbed over a pebbled pool bottom. From there the creamy expanse of his chest curved inward and down into the hollow bowl of his stomach, supported by the symmetrical arches of his hipbones. Shadows fell almost incidentally into the creases where thighs met torso – as if they'd forgotten to be there and then slipped in unnoticed – cradling the sparse nest of dark curls that cocooned Sherlock's sex. And then his legs, miles and miles of them, ending in narrow feet with toes that would have been freakish on anyone else, but on Sherlock were oddly elegant.

"Well? Can you work with it?" His deep voice was crisp and outwardly businesslike, but John could hear the uncertainty and desperation lingering underneath. It crawled like a new-cut fingernail over his spine, cutting into the soft flesh over his heart, and he forced an encouraging smile.

"I'm not sure I have enough artistic skill to replicate you, Sherlock. You're in a class of beauty all your own." He'd meant for it to come out masculine and half-joking, but his intentions fell flat as his voice emerged a soft, husky mimic of his usual tenor. John tensed, prepared to withstand the cutting edge of Sherlock's whip-fast sarcasm.

But instead the alien angles of Sherlock's face softened, and one corner of his full mouth tipped up. "I have the utmost faith in your abilities, my dear John." Those words shouldn't have left John feeling so breathless, and yet there he was, chest tight and lungs compressed as Sherlock folded his lean limbs to sit awkwardly on the couch. "How do you want me?"

The smartass adolescent in John made a leering reply in his head, but he kept it battened down firmly. "Just lie down – like that, yeah. Maybe fold your arm a bit, so your fingers are lying on your cheek."

Sherlock moved as directed, and John got a brief, perverse thrill at being obeyed so absolutely. The younger man was like a force of nature, always taking the social norms and twisting them to suit his own purposes. John very much doubted Sherlock's grasp of the concept of _rules_, at least outside of chemistry or physics.

And then there was nothing left but to draw. John propped the sketchbook on his knees and went to work, sliding automatically from awkward, lusting animal to the keen observation of an artist. It was so different, drawing Sherlock. He'd drawn nude men before, of course – male prostitutes were rare, but not unheard-of, especially in a city like Paris – but none quite so otherworldly as Sherlock. And women were an entirely different geography. Their curves and hollows made shading bald-faced and predictable, and the compactness of their bone structure usually lent his compositions a put-together air. Not so here. Sherlock was all length, it seemed, from the pale arch of his throat to the precise line from breastbone to genitals to his endless legs. John's inner technician kept itching to add a potted plant or something behind the couch to draw the composition upward; but he resisted. This picture was about Sherlock, about worshiping the lines and subtle contours of his body in charcoal and, perhaps later, ink. There was no room for anything else in John's head.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, head bent, teasing out the dip of Sherlock's navel or the slender crook of his wrist from the blank page. Sherlock was remarkably still for someone so full of energy and action, and time blurred into a passage marked only by the laying down of lines and the smudging of artlessly tousled curls.

When John finally sat up straight and let the tiny remnant of his charcoal stick drop into his pocket, he let out an involuntary groan quickly followed by an apologetic glance. "Sorry. Got a bit stiff."

Sherlock hummed in implicit agreement, stretching out to his full length against the red brocade. "Yes, I should think so. You've been hunched over like that for over two hours."

"Only two hours?" John mused, scraping blunt nails through the hair at his nape. "I've done longer. I guess I was inspired." He grinned slightly, totally devoid of inhibitions after the extended creative sprawl. Drawing so intensely always left him feeling a bit lightheaded, as if he'd poured all his mental faculties into his work, but today that seemed somewhat exacerbated.

"May I see?" Sherlock inquired, sitting up slowly. He seemed entirely comfortable with his own nudity now: he didn't even bother reaching for his dressing gown as he stood and came to stand behind John's shoulder.

There was quiet for a long, long time. John fought to keep the tremble out of his hands as he held the sketchbook in his lap, his skin crawling with the scrutiny of Sherlock's gaze. Then, finally, breath stirred warmly against his ear, and Sherlock said, "You were wasted as a soldier."

It surprised a laugh out of John as he turned to look at Sherlock's face, but he quickly stifled it upon seeing the other man's expression. "You think so?"

Sherlock's gray eyes studied him seriously, darting back and forth as they moved over his face like a whisper. "Yes. Absolutely."

"Well." He felt the smile peel away from his eyes and fall unfulfilled to the ground, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "High praise from Sherlock Holmes."

"Of course." Sherlock inclined his head, as stately as a prince, and it seemed only natural for John to tip his face up in answer. Sherlock's spine curled, a sapling bending back to earth, and over his shoulder John could see the uncensored jut of shoulder blades like undeveloped wings; and then Sherlock's mouth was hot and damp over his, the meeting of two worlds in a single space. John's fingers trawled over white flesh, cupping around Sherlock's neck of their own accord, and he swallowed Sherlock's moan into his own mouth, reveling in the sweet-sour taste.

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><p>Later, when hearts beat steady and calm in too-full chests, when breath rushed in and out with its customary ambling gait, John let his eyes travel over Sherlock's skin. He huffed a laugh, and Sherlock's head turned in his lap to look at him.<p>

"What's so funny?"

John let his now-clean fingers trail up over the concave hollow of Sherlock's sternum to rest against the butterfly flutter of his pulse. "I've left fingerprints," he answered, only a little bit regretful. His other hand trace the patterns lightly, deep black proof of his hands on Sherlock's body.

"Hmm." Sherlock turned his head slightly in John's lap, curls brushing against still-tender skin, and John's hand tightened over the narrow sweep of ribs. "Leave them."

"What? Really?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with amusement and more than a touch of lust. "Oh yes. So when I'm forced to go to this _hateful_ dinner party, I can mingle and chatter and sip champagne and know that under my expensive clothes is the evidence of _this_." His hand, narrow and birdlike, clasped around the circle of John's wrist and pressed his calloused fingertips to Sherlock's belly.

"Your brother will probably notice," John said breathlessly, wondering how it was possible to be interested again so soon.

Sherlock's grin curled into something wicked. "Exactly. Now come here. We only have a few minutes before I need to get dressed, and I want to make the most of them."


End file.
